


Dreams Written like Poetry

by Stormyskys



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Poetry, Post-Canon, fakir is big time pining but he's in denial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:10:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18603331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormyskys/pseuds/Stormyskys
Summary: Six months have passed since the end of the story and Fakir finds himself unable to write Ahiru back into her human body. His writer's block drives him to try writing poetry instead but he finds that poetry doesn't affect reality like he's used too...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time ever writing a multi chapter fic, so that's nerve wracking lmao  
> Hope you enjoy :)

Half a year had passed since Drosselmeyer’s story and life had returned to normal for the town, but if Fakir was being honest, life had been little more lonely recently. Mytho’s absence left a hole in his heart, which was to be expected when losing what Fakir considered to be a familial bond. He considered him one of the only family members he had left, but he too had moved on. Even though they had gone through a rough patch, with Fakir being overbearing and even abusive, his heart still ached for the familiar companionship. He wished the last couple of years they spent together could have been more friendly, but he relished in the fact that he helped give Mytho the happy ending he deserved.

  
He even missed Rue a little bit, sure they weren’t very friendly, but maybe they would have grown closer at the story’s end.  
Then there was Ahiru...

  
Ahiru.

  
Fakir lived up to his word and stayed by her side for the past six months. He made an effort to visit her at her little lake everyday, even if he was busy or tired, he was always there for her.

  
Since the story’s end he promised her that he would try and write a story to make her a girl again but it’s been a slow going. Immediately after Mytho returned to the story, Fakir took time away from his writing to give his hand a chance to properly heal. It took only a couple of weeks but after he recovered he found that he couldn’t find his rhythm. He would start stories, only to end up crumpling them up and setting them on fire. Nothing he wrote was good and he didn’t want to write anything short of perfect for Ahiru.

  
“Quack?” Fakir snapped out of his thoughts and looked down at Ahiru who was floating up against the dock. He was currently sitting on his favorite rocking chair, on top of the dock that hangs over the water. The wooden cabin was behind him, looking as run down as it had so many months ago.

  
She peered up at him, a worried look in her eyes. To any passerby she may just look like an average duck, but Fakir liked to think he could read her by now.

  
“Did you need something? I was trying to-” Fakir looked down at his blank page, “...write.”

  
“Qua Quack?” Ahiru asked.

  
Ok so maybe he couldn’t read her all the time.

  
Fakir grabbed a piece of paper from his stack and set it down on the dock, then placed an inked quill on top of it.

  
“Here.”

  
Ahiru lifted herself from the water and landed on the dock. Using her beak she grabbed the middle of the quill and angled her head, so that the pen was gently resting against the paper.

  
With messy letters she scrawled out, “Are you okay? You look lost.”

  
Fakir smiled. He had worried that overtime her human like mind would begin to fade and she really would be just an ordinary duck, but she was the same caring girl he knew and lov- cared for.

  
“I’m fine, just running out of inspiration I guess.” Fakir sighed. “I know I promised to try and write a story to bring you back but I just can’t seem to find the words right now.”

  
Ahiru scribbled something down again.

  
“There’s no need to rush things. Take care of yourself.”

  
“But what about you?” Fakir shook his head. “I can’t just leave you here like this!”

  
“Please rest.”

  
“No!” Fakir stood up, his writing supplies tumbling from his lap. “Shit…”

  
He bent down and picked up his ink bottle and pens, looking over he saw Ahiru chasing down any loose papers that the slight breeze tried carrying away. Her kindness was one thing that Fakir always admired, though he would never be able to tell her that. No matter how close they were he could never tell her what he thought of her deep in his heart. He couldn’t chance scaring away the closest friend he had ever had and although he would deny the thought, he knew she could find someone more suited for her. Someone more capable of giving her the life she deserved. He couldn’t even write a story of giving her the perfect life...

  
Fakir plopped down on the dock, placing his supplies on top of his chair. Ahiru waddled back towards him carrying a majority of the loose papers. She looked up at him expectantly and he took the papers from her and put them with the rest of his stuff. When he looked back she was sitting next to him.

  
“Thanks for the help,” he said, “and I apologize for my outburst earlier.” Fakir ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “It’s just frustrating not being able to do what I’m meant to do. Like how I was supposed to be a knight, but we both know how that turned out.”

  
Ahiru nudged him with her beak and shook her head.

  
“Are you saying I’m not a failure?” She nodded. “Hm.”

  
Ahiru stood up and walked over to where the paper and quill were sitting. Using her beak, she grabbed them both and dragged them back over to Fakir.

  
“You were never a failure. You should be nicer to yourself.”

  
Fakir scoffed.

  
“No seriously! You saved the town and Mytho from the story! So what if you’re in a bit of a writers block?”

  
“I couldn’t save you Ahiru.”

  
Ahiru stilled her pen, and looked up at him.

  
“I wanted to protect you, and I did from the raven but what about now? I can’t even give you a better life, a better body.” Fakir looked away from her, choosing to focus his gaze on the water. It’s unfair that she had to live out her life like this. He was glad that Mytho and Rue got their happy endings, they really did deserve it after everything they went through, but so did Ahiru. She sacrificed so much, yet gained nothing in the end. It wasn’t fair.

  
“Quack…” Ahiru chirped, grabbing Fakir’s attention. With her wing she motioned back to the paper. “Becoming a girl again would be great, but not at the cost of your sanity.”  
“Idiot…” he mumbled. “You should be more worried about yourself than me.”

  
“Look, becoming a girl would be nice and all, but there is no rush. It’s not like I’m in danger or anything.”

  
Fakir thought about it for a moment. She wasn’t wrong, from what he researched, ducks didn’t have too many predators, or at least nothing she couldn’t handle. Plus he did visit her everyday to feed her, so it wasn’t like she would go hungry. But what about loneliness? Sure he always kept her company, but did she have any other animal friends?

  
“Well if I’m not writing a story for you then I feel like I should still be productive doing something.”

  
Ahiru paused for a moment, Fakir could tell she was thinking hard about something. Suddenly she jumped up and flapped her wings, quacking happily. She grabbed the quill and quickly scrawled out a new message.

  
“What if you wrote poetry?! Poetry is so wonderful and I bet you could write it beautifully!”

  
Fakir’s face contorted into a look of distaste. “Poetry?” It wasn’t like he hated poetry, in fact he found some to be quite lovely, but he always found more value in novels.

  
“What’s wrong with poetry?” Ahiru asked.

  
Fakir didn’t quite know how to answer that. He enjoyed books for the way stories could just flow through the pages, as if it were a river he was lazily floating down. Poems felt more like a puddle, one splash and you move on to the next. He could read through poems with speed and ease, but he could savour a good book, as if it were a meal.

  
Besides, he’s never attempted to write poetry before. He didn’t even know if he could write it efficiently, but it could be a good way to break up his writer's block. Maybe some change could spark his inspiration for his story.

  
“Maybe I will give it a try,” he said. “But I feel like we should test it out first to see if it affects reality, like writing stories does.”

  
Ahiru nodded in agreement. “Look at you being so responsible,” she teased.

  
Fakir scoffed, “I’m always responsible! You on the other hand…”

  
Ahiru quacked angrily, her wings flapping in a way that resembled someone shaking their fists.

  
Fakir chuckled at her display. “Calm down dummy,” he smiled and pat her on the head. “So what should my poem be about?”

  
“Ballet! No wait, maybe about books? Maybe yourself?” Ahiru grumbled in frustration as she crossed her own words out.

  
“It should be easy to test, so maybe I should write about myself?” Fakir felt a little uncomfortable at the thought. He was fine with testing it on himself but not about what he would write. He trusted Ahiru but he didn’t want to just pour his heart out in front of her, it would be too embarrassing.

Grabbing his supplies from the chair he set up his pad of paper in front of him. His ink bottle was placed beside him, open and ready for use. Ahiru looked up at him with expecting eyes, and he sighed, placing his quill at the top his paper.

 

_A scar sits upon skin_  
_Marking the place of past success_  
_But current failure_  
_An ache rings true_  
_Unlike the promise of my demise_

 

Fakir set his quill down on the dock, sighing. Ahiru flew up to his shoulder so she could catch a glance of his writing. He could hear her quietly quack as she scanned over the words. Nudging his cheek with her head, he turned to look at her but immediately regretted it. Her bright blue eyes. which were usually filled with immense joy and wonder, were filled up with unshed tears.

  
“Hey, don’t do that.” Fakir reached up to pat her head. He didn’t need her pity, that wasn’t the point of the poem. “I just want to see if I’ll feel an ache.”

  
“Quack!” Ahiru nudged him harder. She hopped back down to her paper and began writing something. “Don’t hurt yourself you dummy!”

  
“Calm down moron! I don’t feel anything anyway,” he said. After sitting for another moment he put a fist up to his lips in thought. “I guess it doesn’t work like it does with my stories. That’s interesting I wonder what it is?”

  
“Maybe it only works on me? You know, since you always write stories about me?”

  
“Could be? Lets try it.”

  
He thought carefully of what he wanted to write for her, if he messed up he could possibly hurt her. He probably shouldn’t just start outright with trying to turn her into a girl, just in case. It should be something simple.

 

_A swan encaptures grace_  
_A sentiment not shared by ducks_  
_But one duck_  
_Wears hope as a slipper_  
_That carries her graceful body en pointe_

 

Fakir set his quill down and held his poem to his chest, so Ahiru couldn’t sneak a peek, and waited. He stared intently at her as she stood completely still, waiting for something to happen. After a moment, Ahiru shrugged and bent down to pick up her quill.

  
“Well nothing happened, unless you wanted me to stay completely still.”

  
“I wrote for you to go en pointe actually,” Fakir said. “Strange, did you hear me in your thoughts as I was writing it?”

  
“Nope!”

  
“Huh.” Fakir said, glancing down at his poem. Underneath his previous writings he began to write a short sentence.

 

With great passion, fueled by a deep longing, Ahiru picked herself up and began to pirouette.

 

Fakir looked back up at Ahiru, and just like he wrote, with a sad quack she began to spin. So he still had his ability, but why didn’t it work with the poems?  
“I can hear your thoughts now!” Ahiru thought back to him.

  
After one last twirl, she plopped back down on the dock next to her quill and paper.

  
“I don’t understand…” Fakir said quietly. What was so different about writing stories and poetry?

  
“Qua!” Ahiru said, pulling his attention back to her. She tapped her foot on her paper, motioning for him to look at it.

  
“This is great! You can write without having to worry it’ll come true!”

  
Fakir thought about that for a moment. Perhaps it is a good thing, not having to worry that his words could bring about another tragedy. Maybe now we could actually just relax a little while writing.

  
Looking off into the distance Fakir noticed how dark it had gotten. Above him the sky was bathed in a pink hue. The clouds were few and far between except for the ones gathering around the sun, as if they were waving it goodbye until it would show its’ face again tomorrow.

  
“Looks like it’s time to head home,” Fakir sighed, “Charon is probably looking for me.” Leaving was always his least favorite part about spending time with Ahiru. He hated having to abandon her.

  
“Qua…” Ahiru nudged his hand that was resting on top of the dock. Fakir lifted it and began to pet her head gently.

  
“Moron...I’ll be back tomorrow” he reaffirmed and she nodded.

  
With little effort, Fakir picked himself up from his sitting position, making sure to not step on Ahiru when he did. He grabbed all his supplies that sat atop the rocking chair and made sure to pick up the scraps that Ahiru had written on. Looking down he saw her staring back up at him patiently and he sighed.

  
“See you tomorrow.”

  
“Quack,” she waved back to him.

  
Then he was off.

  
While parting was an unavoidable part of his everyday, it never stung any less. Walking home gave Fakir time to think through his interactions with Ahiru and his plans on how to go about getting her back. He now had a new writing outlet which was a very handy development, so he couldn’t say this day was a total waste. Not that he considered just sitting with Ahiru was a waste of time, if anything it gave him some kind of purpose. Before he lived to protect Mytho, he had a duty to fulfill but now...

  
Fakir halted his movements. Did he want to help Ahiru just to fulfill some kind of purpose or did he really want to help? Were his motivations really so selfish?  
Shaking his head Fakir began to walk again.

_Held captive by a rusting chain_  
_A swan with feathers as pure as snow_  
_And a heart as rich as gold_  
_Sits mercilessly_  
_Waiting_  
_Until his chain is broken by a duck_  
_Who now must suffer his fate in exchange_  
_Another chain_  
_With glossy steel_  
_Now sits around the neck of hope_

 

Fakir made a mental note to write that down when he returned home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams are an odd thing, especially when the events seem so familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna wait longer to post this chapter but I'm impatient lmao. I just really enjoyed writing the dream sequence and really wanted to share it! Hope you enjoy :)

Sleep found him easily that night. Most nights he would lay in his bed and stare up at the blank ceiling as if it could somehow grant him slumber. Usually his mind would run wild with the numerous ideas he had for his stories and he would chase them like a fool to gold. Tonight was different though. It was one of his rare days when sleep sounded more promising than his imagination.

His mind was a blank slate, a black sea with which he could aimlessly drift on. There was nothing around him. No sound, no sight and no movement except his own steady breathing. 

Then like a drop of watercolor on canvas, color began to bleed into Fakir’s form. He was floating there, suspended in the middle of nothing. His tan skin started to build pigment yet still looked flushed compared to the black background that surrounded him. His scar was noticeably a more intense color than the rest of his now fully colored body. It began to look like coals near the end of a fire, a faint red glow could be seen through the cracks. 

Suddenly Fakir jerked his body as if he had been burned and his eyes shot open. With an intake of breath, he reached instinctively for his scar only for more pain to sizzle out, shooting waves of pain through his body. From his mouth came a hoarse scream that filled the soundless void. 

_ Stop stop STOP!  _ He kept thinking but pain kept raking through his body causing him to jolt helplessly midair. Tears tried to escape his eyes but they just wouldn’t come. It was as if the watercolor that pigmented his skin took up every last bit of water this world had to offer. 

Then it just stopped. 

The waves of pain faded out leaving him with an aching sensation that sat deep in his skin. With heaving breaths, Fakir held onto his scar that now returned to its’ natural color. Sweat drenched his skin and tears were finally free to fall from his eyes. Tears tracked down his cheeks and eventually off his trembling body into the void below.

After taking a moment to calm himself Fakir let himself look at his lack of surroundings. He took a peek below himself and noticed a puddle had formed. It made him sick to think that it was probably from his own tears. He turned his head away from the mess but found his body being rotated so that the puddle was now above his head. 

Instead of the puddle raining down on him a singular form appeared from the mass. It looked like a swan floating gracefully on the top of a pond but quickly the swan shrunk down into a duck. The duck hopped out of the puddle revealing a pair of white ballet shoes on her feet. She then picked herself up and stood en pointe. Even though she had no pupils Fakir could tell she was looking right at him. He tentatively reached for the duck and she returned the gesture. 

Right before Fakir could reach her he heard the sound of metal smacking the ground and then a body. Turning around he could see a pure white swan lying against an invisible floor, a rusty chain wrapped tightly around its neck. The chain dropped through the floor and down into the endless void beneath them.

“Quack!” The crystalline duck chirped up behind him, her form already flying towards the swan.

“Wait!” Fakir yelled. His hand flew out to stop the duck but he found he couldn’t move. Around his left ankle sat a rusty chain. He gulped and looked back up at the swan but he was already looking at Fakir. His glare could’ve frozen Fakir in place if he wasn’t already stuck in place.

The duck was at the swan’s side, trying to pry the chain away from his neck but it wouldn’t budge. She began to precisely peck at it, making sure not to accidentally hit the swan in the process. The repetitive ting of her beak against the metal filled the void. It was a monotonous beat that carried with it the feeling of eternal hope and devotion. 

Fakir sat back and watched the spectacle unfold in front of him. The swan sat motionless as the duck tried in earnest to free him. Why isn’t the swan doing anything to help? Why was he being so docile?

To their collective shock the chain shattered into fragments, that fell into the void like fresh snow, yet the lock on Fakir’s ankle remained. Finally the swan shifted as he picked himself up onto his feet. His attention was solely on the duck who gave him the privilege to run free. The duck stared back, her attentive gaze becoming watery as she closed the gap between herself and the swan with a hug. The swan happily reciprocated, his wings wrapped warmly around her neck. 

Fakir breathed a sigh of relief at the sight, although he could feel a pang of familiarity in his chest. Something wasn’t right with this picture. 

Just as the thought crossed his mind the swan pulled away from the duck revealing a glossy silver chain now placed upon her neck. The duck accepted the burden with constrained discontent as the swan stepped back, regret brightening his every feature. 

Fakir’s whole body tensed as he watched this display of betrayal from the sidelines. He clenched his fists as if the rage he was feeling was palpable.

“You can’t just do that!” He shouted to the swan. Each syllable was tainted in bitterness and he hoped the swan could taste it. 

Both of the birds looked at him after his sudden outburst. The swan looked soaked in shame but still turned away from the other two. 

“Don’t you dare leave. Free her!” 

The swan looked back at the duck one last time and nodded as if to say thank you, then expanded his wings and took off.

Poison boiled deep in his gut and bubbles threatened to spill out of his mouth as toxic words but only one name found itself stuck on the tip of his tongue.

“MYTHO!!!!” 

Fakir woke with a shout as he vaulted himself out of his bed with outstretched arms as if to grasp the quickly fleeting memory of the swan. His arms were the first thing to hit the hardwood floor, followed by his chin that landed with an audible smack. 

Fakir groaned as he rolled over, one hand rubbing his possibly now bruising chin. As if a match was lit, the sudden overwhelming memory of his aching scar engulfed his thoughts. With hurried hands he undid his nightshirt and ran his fingers over his scar. It was the same as it always was except he could feel the thin layer of sweat that coated his rigid body. 

Slowly Fakir released the breath he had been holding as he slipped his hands off his chest and onto the floor beside him. Breath in four, breath out six. He repeated the saying like a mantra hoping it would calm his nerves so he could clearly recall all that had happened in his sleep. 

After composing himself he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Strange dreams weren’t uncommon since the nature of dreams were strange in of itself but the physical pain and unsettling clarity for which he experienced was abnormal. He had never felt awake while dreaming, never so...aware. In fact the interaction between the duck and swan felt more like a memory than a dream. It felt tangible, like he could hold and mold it.

He understood what the dream was. It wasn’t a fresh occurence having his time in the story taint his sleep. He could practically see Drosselmeyer’s mocking grin every time he woke up in a cold sweat. But the scene still felt all too recent, a fresh wound in Fakir’s heart. 

Suddenly he pushed himself up and looked at his desk. His writing supplies sat in the same place he had placed them yesterday after returning from his visit with Ahiru. The poems that she wanted him to right sat at the top of his stack of papers. 

“The poems…” he whispered to himself. “It’s just a coincidence right?” 

He stood up and grabbed one of his poems. His eyes traced every line with great focus. 

“A swan captures grace, a sentiment not shared by ducks…” he read outloud. He remembered how the duck first came to him a graceful swan floating on a puddle of his tears. He cringed. 

“But one duck wears hope as a slipper that carries her graceful body en pointe,” he finished the poem, his mind replaying the events that matched up with what he was reading. The duck had been wearing ballet shoes and she did go en pointe just like he wrote for Ahiru to do as a test of his powers.

He then reread the poem that was supposed to test his writing on himself and sure enough his scar had been overtaken by an agonizing ache although it was stronger than he wrote about. There was also a difference in feelings he was supposed to experience. Not once did the dream address the fact that he was a failed knight, it never even grazed the idea that he was a failure. 

He looked over the last poem that he wrote down as soon as he got home. The swan, that his awake self recognized as Mytho, was first found being held down by the chain. Then Ahiru came and helped him but nowhere in his poem did he say anything about himself being a part of this drama. There wasn’t any reason why he was chained down as well but that was how the poem played out in his dreams.

Fakir sighed and ran a hand through his messy bedhead. One poem happening was possible, two was a coincidence but three? Certainly these events were connected but the question that thrummed inside his head was why? Why was this happening? What was his next move?

For one he couldn’t tell Ahiru about this just yet. He trusted her with his life and would certainly tell her eventually but he needed to hammer out the situation before he could bring it up to her. He couldn’t drag her into another possibly dangerous situation, he had to protect her. 

He kept telling himself that but one question hung tantalizingly in front of him. Was it possible that this power could allow him to live out his fantasies through a safe outlet? 

He could bring her back... He could finally look at her smile which lit his heart on fire and caused his dense external wall to turn to wax. Her laugh would fuel the flame causing the wall to slowly drip revealing a boy who never believed love could exist or feel this euphoric. Her hands would replace the feathered wings she now lived with and oh how he dreamed of holding them. How he dreamed of feeling her her delicate fingertips graze his pulse which would surely be beating thunderously. To feel her hands grasp his which were calloused from years of helping in the smithy and scarred from the many times he’s nicked himself with a sword while practicing. 

Fakir shook his head as if to cool his heating face, “Idiot…it’s useless to think about.” With a sigh he placed his back firmly against the wall next to his desk and slid down until his butt hit the floor. He tucked his legs close against his chest and wrapped his arms around them, then he put his forehead against his knees. 

With his eyes squeezed shut he hoped for his feelings to leave him so he could actually thinking rationally. Using his power to see Ahiru was just too inappropriate. He needed a plan. He needed to study this newfound ability.


End file.
